


Coffee Stain

by leporidae



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Drinking & Talking, F/F, Gen, they're drinking coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 10:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17078300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporidae/pseuds/leporidae
Summary: "Are memories the most valuable treasure of all? Or the least?"





	Coffee Stain

**Author's Note:**

> The first of my two Hunter x Hunter Secret Santa gifts for [Maxx!](https://maxxeruz.tumblr.com/) Let me know ifyou have an account here so I can gift it to you directly. You had some really galaxy brain taste in your preferred ships/requests, so I wanted to write more than one of them.
> 
> The prompt for this one was "Pakunoda and Machi out on a date." It's... a very low key date. I can't really imagine the Phantom Troupe being huge on super sappy romantic gestures, anyway.

“It’s cold,” Pakunoda observes, breath puffing out in front of her as she speaks.

Machi watches her companion’s intense gaze trained on the fading mist, and for a moment there’s a gleam of almost childish curiosity there. But it’s snuffed out in an instant, much like the lives Pakunoda takes with her gun on an almost daily basis, and her companion’s aura settles back into stoic calm.

“Mmhmm.” With rounded lips Machi exhales her own line of chilly smoke into the air, but it doesn’t fill her with the same wonder. It gets cold every year, and the Troupe does what it does in every season. There's nothing more to it than that.

They both dress as they always do, coexisting despite their clashing styles. Hiding their identities would be pointless when neither of them have identities to begin with; they’re nothing more than the discarded trash of Meteor City, just like how the bodies that had piled up during their most recent raid had become the discarded trash of the rest of the world. Death truly is a great equalizer, Machi thinks, because it devalues everyone in an instant. A precious book cannot be sold on the black market if it has been burnt, much like a corpse contains no legacy of value other than a meal for carrion. Perhaps their shared knowledge of this reality is why Machi feels at ease around Pakunoda, why she can relax her shoulders and notice smaller details of their surroundings, the cool chill in the air and the soft breeze flitting against her cheeks.

And she notices details about the other woman, too, superficial qualities to which she would otherwise not give any thought. Pakunoda’s lips are dark red, the color of the blood splatter on her blazer the night before, the result of another indiscriminate pull of the trigger as she’d snuffed the life out of someone neither of them would ever remember. Her hooked nose had earned her the jeers of drunken men, but the opinion of men had never mattered much to Pakunoda. (Nor to Machi, for that matter.)

Machi also doesn't agree with anyone who would taunt Pakunoda for her appearance; though her features are prominent and striking, they suit her, just as her wardrobe of blazers and soft spot for homeless kittens suit her. They are all qualities that Machi is used to, and anything that remains a constant in an otherwise uncertain existence is... pleasant.

“I could go for a hot cup of coffee right about now,” Pakunoda muses.

Machi grunts in affirmation, but says nothing.

A jingle sounds from the door as they step into the coffee shop, a sound most likely meant to welcome friendly customers and not serial murderers. But today, the two women are going to play the role of the former.

It’s uneventful, polite; they both order their coffees as regular people would (both black, because the taste of added sugar is unnatural, tastes like home when they have none), and clasp the warm mugs in calloused palms when they are brought to the table, all traces of blood and grime under their nails hidden from view.

“Shizuku didn’t want to come?” Pakunoda asks, about halfway through the beverage. “On this — _girl’s night._ ” It’s stated with some sarcasm, of course, because what kind of night can the two of them have? Members of the Phantom Troupe don’t have luxury of manicures and spa nights and pretty dresses.

Is that even what a _girl’s night_ would be? Machi wonders blandly. She doesn’t know.

“She would have forgotten anyway, if I had invited her,” Machi says, staring dispassionately past Pakunoda to stare at the barista. She's tired, but still smiling pleasantly, and it’s curious to think that she has no idea who she had just served. That same barista very well could perish as collateral damage of one of the Troupe’s raids, as many other innocent citizens had. At the very least, she had made one fairly delicious cup of coffee before her potential demise. “You know how Shizuku is.”

Machi wouldn’t have asked Shizuku to join them, anyway, since it’s rare that Machi has the chance to spend time alone with Pakunoda. Lately she had spent more time on her own than with the rest of the Troupe — well, sometimes unfortunately running across Hisoka, but _usually_ alone — and it’s by choice. The Phantom Troupe doesn’t need to be around one another constantly to preserve their bond; regardless of where they are in the world, they’re all still the same drifting, aimless pieces of trash, with nothing connecting them to anything but their bonds to Meteor City, bonds that are both stronger than steel and completely meaningless.

“I felt a little bad leaving her back at the base like that,” Pakunoda says, and though her expression does not change, Machi can hear the trace of a smile in her voice. “Since Uvo and Phinks were yelling about — well, whatever they were yelling about. I was honestly a bit relieved we stepped out for air.”

Machi shrugs. “She probably wasn’t even paying attention. Hell, she probably won’t even remember it once it’s over. If only we could all be that blessed.”

Pakunoda brings the rim of the mug to her lips and takes a long sip as she thinks. “Well, no memories are immortal,” she says finally. “They die along with us.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Machi asks dryly, but the casual mention of death doesn’t bother her. Every member of the Phantom Troupe is prepared to die at any moment. As individuals, they don’t matter. Losing a member is devastating only in its impact on the Spider, not on one another. Sentimentality has no place amidst a group of trained thieves and killers.

“I didn’t know you were seeking peace of mind,” Pakunoda teases lightly. “In that case, you should consider a different job.”

“Very funny.”

There's silence for a while, though it's not uncomfortable. Machi idly taps the surface of the wooden table with one fingernail.

Pakunoda finishes the remainder of her coffee first. There's a ring of lipstick on the rim of the mug. "The artifacts we steal retain their value after their original creator has died. In fact, some of them even grow more valuable with death. But a person's memory — it's only relevant as long as the person doing the remembering is still alive. Memories become worthless once they are gone. Perhaps they had no value to begin with?"

Machi says nothing.

"And yet, to that person, the memory is more important to them than any physical object. A person can lose their treasures, their rare skeletons and antique books and precious gems, but the loss of memories of say, a loved one — that would be much more devastating." A pause. "Although, after the person has lost the memory, it becomes worthless yet again. It's something I've always wondered — are memories the most valuable treasure of all? Or the least?"

Pakunoda has a philosophical streak that Machi does not. It is the reason she gets along especially well with Chrollo, who possesses the same tendency to brood about existential matters. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I was curious about your thoughts on the matter, I suppose."

Machi tries to think, she _truly_ does, but — she comes up with nothing. The concept is not tangible enough for her to consider. "Is it really worth thinking about?"

The rim of her own mug is not colored red like Pakunoda's. Machi does not wear lipstick.

"Hmm," Pakunoda says, which isn't much of a response at all. "Do you consider the memory of this conversation to be worthless, then?"

Machi looks at her then, the cropped hair and lithe limbs, the delicate fingers that have pulled the trigger so many times. The dark, low-lidded eyes, always thinking, always secretive. Pakunoda has been a constant in her life for so long, like the air she breathes. Her memory goes beyond  _worth_ and  _worthlessness._ They are simply a part of each other, as are all the Spiders, just two limbs of a greater collective.

Though, perhaps a bit closer.

Machi finishes her own coffee. "At the very least, I won't forget it."


End file.
